


If It Weren't for Another

by willow_keeper



Series: If It Weren't for Another [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Canada, F/F, Fantasy, Historical, Historical Fantasy, Historical Romance, Original Fiction, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-25 00:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30080538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willow_keeper/pseuds/willow_keeper
Summary: Ada Caulfield, a teen in 1886 Newfoundland, struggles with her boring life and wishes for something more that, preferably, doesn't include marriage. She does this all while grieving for her friend, Minnie, who'd passed away mysteriously several years before.
Relationships: wlw - Relationship
Series: If It Weren't for Another [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2213184





	1. O N E

MY LIFE WAS MUNDANE.

At least, that was the nicest way to put it and, as I was absolutely always trying to be the nicest version of myself possible, that was exactly how I’d respond to anyone who asked how I was doing. 

Quite frankly, at 19, I wasn’t doing extraordinarily well. In fact, I was hardly doing anything at all.

Most of the girls in my town were married already, with the exceptionally-ugly being left behind like rotten fruit. 

This was something my mother liked to remind me of daily. 

“Ava, Sweetie, one day you’ll find the right man for you and you’ll start a family together, as I did.”

“Mother, _Sweetie_ , your man lied about going to war just so he could bed some American sweetheart.”

In short, I did not think very highly of my father. Honestly, I didn’t think of him much at all. He ‘went to war’ when I was but three years of age and never returned. All around town, women were opening letters sent to them expressing ‘the military’s immense gratitude for your father’s/husband’s/son’s contribution but regret to report their death’, while we never got one. Six years ago, our neighbour, Agatha, stated that she saw my father while vacationing in Vermont. She said he was especially fine as he had a young maiden with him. 

One with extraordinary breasts, apparently. 

That was enough to convince me that he was not a good person. My mother, however, needed slightly more convincing. I didn’t know what she dreaded more: the news of his death or the possibility that he left us simply for a mistress.

If it were up to me, I would’ve preferred death. That would mean that he most-likely didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Is that concerning?

Take Minnie.

Minnie and I met in grade school. She was the new kid in town. Her parents moved here to be closer to the sea. She had lived in the mainland most of her life so she, unlike me, adored this place.

Minnie stole my pencil in first grade so I cut her hair. It seemed fair at the time. I don’t necessarily regret it.

We were perfect for each other. We were the sisters neither of us had—I, as an only child and she, as the only girl and the youngest of five children.

We were inseparable even when our paths diverged. She dropped out of secondary school to work full-time as a cook for a wealthy family, while I stayed. She wanted to marry rich, while I didn’t want to marry at all.

She got lost in a forest, contracted scarlet fever and died, while I had never gotten lost in a forest, never contracted scarlet fever and never died. 

Just another difference between us.

After her death, her family moved back to the mainland. All traces that she was ever here left with them. Maybe her family wanted it that way. Maybe it was too difficult for them to keep living where she died.

I, on the other hand, had to remain there. It wasn’t very difficult, but it wasn’t like I had a say in the matter. 

But, there’s no point in dwelling on the past.

(Unless it concerned my father. I allowed myself to dwell on him for as much as I wanted). 

My daily schedule wasn’t all that eventful, either. I was finished with school, so all that awaited me was a lifetime of boredom propelled by my mother’s love for sewing and her need for an assistant (along with her need to _underpay_ said assistant). 

Of course, the only thing I wanted after hours of hemming a stupid blouse until my fingers were numb was a man at my doorstep. Not just any man, but Thomas. 

“Greetings, Thomas.”

“Good day, Ada.” Thomas’s eyes didn’t fall on me—they never quite did—and so he looked at the surrounding fabrics as he placed his trousers on the table in front of me. 

“New trousers?” I asked.

Thomas nodded.

The fabric was soft and slipped nicely between my fingers. 

_Definitely cashmere. Imported._

Thomas had money; that was undeniable. His family was of old money, and so he never needed to work.

This was what drew Minnie towards him, even when we were very young, and what led him to join our friend group. I was drawn to him for a different reason that only got stronger following Minnie’s death: both of us lacked a passion for life. Of course, we both _liked_ being alive, we just weren’t passionate about our _own_ lives.

However, he was very rich so I took _his_ lack of passion with a grain of salt. 

Besides his looks (he had long brown curls paired with round, hazel eyes which made up for an unfortunately lacking personality), Thomas had an incredible sense of humour. While he did not have a grace for words, he understood me well (and I, him).

“That’ll be five cents, please.”

Thomas handed me the coins which I counted in a way he wouldn’t notice.

Thomas was never one for subtlety. “Would you like to come to my place for dinner tonight?”

Luckily, neither was I. “I would rather remove my own eyes from my brain whilst fully conscious.”

Thomas grinned. “See you at 19:00.” Before I got the chance to say a word, he turned to walk out the door.

Unlike me, Thomas was permitted to go to university. To his parents’ discontent, he was studying music (the piano, specifically). I didn’t understand why they cared so much, as he didn’t _need_ to go to university at all. His family was wealthy enough for him and even his children to be well-off without working a day in their lives. 

Thomas going to university worked well in my favour, though. Going to university allowed him to rent chemistry books from the library and lend them to me. I never even received the basic secondary school chemistry courses. With Thomas’s help, I’d already gone through six university-level chemistry books. Ask me about titration, Dalton’s theory of the atom—anything. 

It was a shame I couldn’t do anything with the knowledge. 

“Ada, are you there?”

I sighed. “Yes, Mum.”

“Who was that?” 

I rolled my eyes just before she came into view. “Thomas.”

“Thomas, was it?” My mother slid her fingers over his new trousers. “Lambswool. You don’t see that every day, eh?”

 _Shit_.

“He’s invited me to dinner this evening,” I said, cringing in preparation for her response.

As expected, my mother’s eyes lit up. She had always wanted me to marry Thomas. 

_I would rather amputate my leg with a spoon._

“I know you would rather amputate your leg with a spoon, but he’s rich, Ada. And kind.” My mother’s tone was sincere but her words burned a hole through me. “In fact, it’s rare you find a man so rich and so kind. And, you two have known each other since childhood.”

“Yes, yes, Mother, I know all of these things.” I pause, then add: “You know why I can’t marry him.”

My mother’s eyes fell. Any mention of Minnie was enough to slow her down. Minnie’s love for Thomas was not a secret at all. Perhaps my mother thought I’d forgotten about it, as if I could.

“After she died, he went vacationing in Europe for six months. His life moved on—”

“You’re a smart girl, Ada,” my mother said calmly, for we had had this conversation many times before. “Follow your heart. But _please_ think about your future.”

❅

I arrived at Thomas’s door at exactly 19:00. His parents were nothing if not punctual. Perhaps ‘extremely regimented’ was more appropriate.

The door swung open and I was greeted by Mariah, one of Thomas’s maids.

_Maids._

“Thank you, Mariah.” Thomas’s voice appeared right before he did. His hair was swept back and shiny from the grease, and he was wearing a stunning navy suit. “You look beautiful.”

“Yes, and the sky is blue.” I smiled and pushed past him.

_Am I too rude to him?_

_No, I’m just rude enough._

Thomas grinned at my comment, walking with a slight hurry. “My parents are already seated.”

I felt quite bad for him. It must’ve been dreadful to have such stiff parents. My mother was anything but, and by God, I did hope she’d someday change, but at least she was _human._

The dinner was fine—as fine as it could’ve been. I laughed at all their jokes, as a woman should, talked about my mother’s shop, and listened to Marissa and Wiley’s many stories about their _other_ son, Freddie—Thomas’s older brother—who was studying theoretical physics in Copenhagen, while Thomas scowled.

Thankfully, I was no amateur to dining with Thomas’s parents. The dinner passed quickly and I found myself with Thomas in his study, content on a full stomach.

Thomas stormed around the room like an infuriated child. “Freddie, Freddie, Freddie. _Freddie_ speaks Dutch. _Freddie_ studies theoretical physics. _Freddie_ probably fosters ill puppies.” He tugged at his hair in anger. “They never stop.”

I laughed, as I knew he’d hate it. “How could they? He’s the superior brother.”

Thomas scoffed. “The only thing he has over me is an addiction to snow.”

“It’s Copenhagen.”

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is,” Thomas began to pace in circles.

I picked at my nails. “You pity yourself.”

Thomas stopped in his tracks. “And you do not?”

_The nerve of him._

“I have a reason to pity myself,” I said nonchalantly. 

“As do I.”

I felt the heat running in my cheeks but when I looked up, Thomas was smiling.

Silently, he moved over to his desk and pulled out a book. “For you.”

The book’s heftiness was gratifying, and it felt better in my hands than any fabric ever did. I slid my fingers over the cover and read out the title: “ _Plums and Puddings: the Evolution of the Atomic Theory from 1800-1885_.”

_Oh my…_

“Thank you, thank you!” I wrapped my arms around him. “How did you get this? It only came out last week.”

“I pulled a few strings at my university.”

A stone dropped in my stomach and I pulled away. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing.” Thomas paused, and looked at his piano. “Actually, there is one thing you can do for me.”

He sat down and started playing. His fingers danced on the keys as they made out a melancholy tune. The varying intensity—my favourite element of a song—made my heart race.

“You’re certainly better than Freddie at piano.”

Thomas chuckled and picked up the pace. I could tell that we were getting to the climax of the song and my eyes became watery. I held my strength until his fingers gradually slowed down, and finally came to a stop.

“That was beautiful, Thomas.” My words came out cracked. “What is it called?”

Thomas gave me a charming grin. “I’m calling it ‘Ada’.”

The words shook me back to reality, but not the reality I wanted to be in…

“Thank you,” I said shakily. I didn’t want to find out what would happen next.

Thomas stood up. “You mean a lot to me, Ada.” My heart began beating so loud that I could barely hear his words.

“As do you.”

“We’ve been friends since we were four years old,” Thomas said, moving away from the piano. “I’ve always been drawn to you. I thought it was nothing special until… until I went to Europe. I realized it was something else.”

_Oh no…_

“Ada, you complete me. My life is so much better with you in it—so much so that I can’t imagine it without you.”

_Oh no…_

The world frose around me. Everything went cold when Thomas went on one knee. 

“Ada, will you marry me?”

  
  


_Oh no._

_Oh no._

_Oh no…_

“No.”

My frozen world shattered as the shining grin fell from his face. “Excuse me?”

Though my life was mundane, I couldn't help but think some parts of it dramatised. It was the easiest way to deal with what felt like the absurdly-comical aspects of it.

I looked down at my shaking hands. “Thomas… you’re my best friend. I’ve only ever thought of you in that way.”

Thomas’s eyes sparked with passion. “Yes! And who better to marry than your best friend?”

“I can’t. I just—I can’t.”

Thomas’s expression turned sour. He took a deep breath and, in a voice I’d never heard from him before, said: “Is this about _her_?”

“No.” I said the lie firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Thomas scoffed. “She’s been dead for seven years!”

His words hit me like a bullet.

_How can he say that?_

“Yes, and you act as if she was never here!”

“I moved on. You should try it sometime.” His tone was venomous. 

“Did she mean nothing to you?”

“She meant _everything_ to me.” For a moment, I thought I saw his lips tremble.

My voice cracked as I cried: “So how could you do this to her?”

“Because she’s dead, Ada! _She’s dead!_ ”

We trapped ourselves in a suffocating silence. It wrapped around me like smoke, pressing into my lungs and blurring my vision. When I finally spoke, I was speaking into a void. “I can’t marry you, Thomas.”

“Then leave.”

Just like that, the smoke pulled away. But my harsh breathing remained. “Thomas—”

“Leave.”

He wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he looked out the window. He looked stoic, like the subject of a tragic painting. A man who only wanted love, but found himself rejected by every person he knew.

I stood up slowly, hoping he would take back his words if I gave him enough time too. But, stature stiff, he said cooly: “Leave the book.”

I didn’t attempt to protest. As he had commanded, I placed the textbook gently on his desk. The sound of it landing on the desk was akin to waking up from a thunderstorm. 

❅

“Ada—”

I wrapped my hands around my mother. She was warm, as warm as she was when I was a little girl, and she seemed so, _so_ much bigger than me at the time. 

“What is it, Sweetie?”

When I couldn’t answer, she tightened her hold on me. “Come in, come in.”

I did as she said, moving to the couch while she started the kettle. I looked around the room: it was dark and cozy and for once exactly where I wanted to be. 

My mother joined me once she was done, blanket in hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly. 

Pushing out the words was more difficult than anything I had ever done before. “I ruined everything.”

“What do you mean?” She grabbed my hands and held them gently.

“T-Thomas,” I spat out. “He a-asked me—he asked me to marry him.”

My mother’s expression softened. I knew what she was asking me. Slowly, I shook my head. “Are you angry with me?”

“No, Ada.” My mother pulled me closer. “Not at all; I’m proud of you.”

“Really?” I pulled back slightly. _After all these years, how can you only tell me this now?_

“In this world, the only thing braver than marrying someone you despise is refusing to.” My mother spoke slowly, stroking my hair with a solemn look on her face. “I wish I had done the same. You’re so, so strong, Ada.” 


	2. T W O

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ada is left reeling after Thomas’s unexpected proposal. So, she does what she does best: she pushes the emotion down. Unfortunately for her, it’s only a matter of time before the pain resurfaces-this time, manifesting in a mysterious sound…

THE WORLD CAME INTO VIEW  blurred through my eyelids which were heavy from sleep.

Of course, they were not heavy from sleep, but from crying. But, admitting that would mean reliving the previous night’s events, which I was trying my best to avoid. 

My back ached as I sat up from the couch. I hadn’t fallen asleep there since I was a child. Somehow, my mother had left without waking me. 

Speaking of my mother, where was she?

My active imagination went into play as my mind raced through all the possible scenarios: kidnapping; murdered brutally by a bird; running away to avoid being drafted…

Then I remembered—nothing ever happened in this town and the birds were down South until at least a month’s time (and my mother was a woman, but my imagination didn’t bother with fact-checking). She was likely at the shop. 

She hadn’t left me behind like this in years. Not even when I was very ill.

I appreciated that she let me sleep in, but it did pain me in the slightest.

I stretched out my arms and looked over to the window. Not a cloud in sight—it was likely terribly cold.

_ What is Thomas doing right now? _

He was probably playing his piano, composing another one of his many sad tunes. This one would be the saddest of them all, in my honour. Knowing him, he would probably perform it in a show, when he was to become inevitably famous.  _ ‘This is for my no-longer-best-friend, Ada. I proposed to her in simply the most romantic way and she proceeded to break my heart.’ _

And the crowd would boo at my name, the name of a girl known only for breaking a wonderful man’s heart—‘ _ how could she?’ _ they would cry. 

But our friendship was spoiled. It was spoiled when he left for Europe five days after Minnie’s death. It was spoiled when he didn’t even bother to show up for her funeral. Our friendship had been rotting since then. It was only a matter of time until we would be forced to throw it away. 

I sighed, playing my hands on my lap. It was of no use, talking myself in circles.

What  _ was _ of use, however, was eating breakfast. It seemed as if my stomach had forgotten about my dinner the previous night. Hopefully my brain would follow suit. 

_ What do I have now? _

If my mother were with me, she would’ve said:  _ ‘You have me’. _

_ What a fucking nightmare. _

A nightmare, it was. One I couldn’t wake up from. 

If this was a nightmare, then all of life was a lucid dream. It was impossible to predict what was to come, it was impossible to take back what had passed, so all I could do was follow what my heart was telling me. 

That morning, my heart was telling me to put on my best clothes. I had the day to myself; I could make anything of it. 

And so I did. I pulled on my stockings. I put on the blue dress I wore to my aunt’s wedding. It was smaller than I had remembered. I took rouge from my mother’s medicine cabinet and applied it to my lips and eyes. I pinned my hair out of my face as best as I could (my mother was always the one to do my unruly hair) and I looked in the mirror. 

And I was the most beautiful version of myself. 

And I cried. 

❅

I absently heard the shopkeeper’s bell jingle as I entered the shop. My mother was likely downstairs, accompanied by rolls and rolls of fabric and new sewing machines, leaving the front desk vacant and practically begging for burglars. I loved my mother with all my heart, but she could be so simple at times. 

I heard her huffing and puffing, and saw her emerge from the basement. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” she said in her sweetest voice. That was how she spoke to our clients. When she noticed it was me, her voice went deeper and much more casual. “Ada. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to see myself here, either.” I sighed and sat on the front desk. Then, I stood up because my mother hated it when I sat on the front desk. 

“How are you feeling?” my mother asked, fiddling with one of our fancier rolls of fabric we keep at the entrance for display. 

“How am I supposed to feel?”

My mother looked at me sternly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you remember what it was like when you graduated grade school? How it felt when you knew you would never see the majority of these people again? How that amazing world you had was destroyed and the only people who lived through it with you are people you will never see again?”

“My only memories from grade school were predominantly me picking at my scalp.” My mother smiled. When I didn’t reciprocate, she added: “But, yes.”

“That’s how I feel. I just lost my last sliver of my peaceful life.”

My mother rubbed my shoulder sympathetically. “At least it’s still there.”

I knew she was thinking of Minnie. The one who  _ wasn’t _ there.

“It’s almost more painful this way,” I said. It was hard to understand why that was.

“Losing things, my dear, is the saddest part of life,” my mother said. “But it can also be the most freeing.”

I thought of my father. Of all the nights my mother spent crying over photographs of him. It was true; her events drew less and less frequent. Now, she only cried for him on my birthday, when she thought I was asleep. She had her heart broken twice: the first, when she married him; the second, when he left her. Perhaps her grievance was worse than mine. 

My mother didn’t often take her own advice, but I could tell that this came from her own broken heart. 

“Now,” she said, “I have a large order for tomorrow. Three dresses to alter: a bride and her two flowergirls. I’ll take the wedding dress, you take the dress of the flowergirls.”

I sighed dramatically. “Do we not usually deny orders of less than 24 hours?”

My mother smirked. “Yes, but we may or may not change our policy under the influence of a hefty sum of money.”

“Wait—” I returned to reality—“Please tell me that Thomas has already come by to pick up his trousers.”

My mother turned away too slowly for me to not notice her rolling eyes. “Thomas has already come by to pick up his trousers.”

I crept up behind her and peeked over her shoulders. “You’re not just saying that because I asked you to, right?”

“No, Thomas has already come by to pick up his trousers,” my mother said simply.

“Good.”

“Good.”

I followed my mother downstairs to the sewing room. The wedding dress, pearly-white and magnificent, lay beside the sewing machine. The two flowergirls’ dresses were light green and quite hideous, in my opinion.

My mother looked around the room intensely, and her face broke into a smile as she spotted the white tulle. “What would you do without me?”

“I wouldn’t exist,” I said light-heartedly. “The question you should be asking is ‘What would  _ I  _ do without my dearest daughter, Ada?’”

“I’m not certain…” My mother pondered jokingly. “I’d probably go sailing.”

And so we parked ourselves at our respective sewing machines and spoke sparingly throughout the night. I worked until my fingers were nearly bleeding and the sun was nearly up but I didn’t mind, as I, for once, enjoyed the company. 

❅

That night, I struggled to sleep. It seemed as if my lazy day would have its consequences. My brain was exhausted, yet my body remained awake. My feet kept moving and I was sweating. The whole process was excruciating. 

To make matters worse, there was a blinding light creeping through my window.

_ A blinding light? _

I was well aware of how slow the time was passing, so it was nearly impossible that it was morning. I tossed and turned, hoping the light would go away, but it persisted. Finally, to my dismay, I forfeited and pulled open the blinds.

What I was met with was not the glowing sun and a bright blue sky. Instead, the night was dark, with the small lake behind my house shining yellow in what seemed like pulses matching my heartbeat.

Oh, how I prayed I was asleep. I hoped that this was all some sort of dream.

My hands began to shake and I shut the blinds quickly. What was that? Was the lake alive? 

Even I knew that my imagination could not have created something like that. The lake couldn’t be alive.  _ It couldn’t be alive _ , right?

The pulse of the lake seemed deafeningly loud. It no longer matched my beating heart, as my heart outran it. 

_ I must be insane… my mother is going to send me away… _

But the light still streamed through the blinds. The lake was still beating.

My curiosity got the better of me—I took a brief look before shutting the blinds once again. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but the lake was still there. And it was still glowing.

My rational mind began turning. Was someone trapped out there? Perhaps they dropped their light and fell into the lake? Should I have searched for help?

But that would not have explained the pulsations.

No, nothing could have explained the pulsations. 

Perhaps, one thing.

My hands gripped into my knees as I brought them towards me and held them close. I needed to hold  _ something _ close. I didn’t notice how my fingers pierced through my skin. 

I felt lonelier than ever. More fearful than ever. I knew it wasn’t a nightmare. It was far worse: if this was my own mind, how was I to escape it?

I attempted to close my eyes again but the light only got brighter; the pulses, louder. It felt as if I was halfway underwater—one second, I heard the world outside; the next, I was submerged into the abyss with a wave. 

I tried to sing myself a song. Count aloud. But I knew I couldn’t wake Mother, so instead I lay on my side, still gripping my legs, not surrendering to sleep until the glowing sun outshone the light of the lake. 


End file.
